Chapter 61
I woke up to an empty room, the sheets cold on the other side, the silence pressing in from all sides. I had been sleeping alone for months now, but my body still expected her there, still reached for her in the half-darkness before remembering she wasn't there.
I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed.
My gaze drifted to the nightstand. The lopsided pot sat there, the one she had made with her own hands, the one with the dent on the side where her hands had jerked when I kissed her neck.
I reached out and touched it, my fingers tracing the uneven rim.
She had laughed when she gave it to me. She had called it ugly.
I had told her it was perfect. And it was still perfect and very precious to me.
I got dressed and reached for the watch on the dresser. The one she had made me. The silver face, the dark leather strap. I fastened it around my wrist, the weight settling against my skin. She had chosen every piece herself, had assembled it with her own hands.
I couldn't stay here. I couldn't sit in this empty room and think about her. So I did what any man would do to avoid something, work.
The office was cold and efficient, the way I liked it. Reports stacked on my desk, meetings scheduled, decisions waiting to be made. I threw myself into all of it, burying myself in the business, drowning out the silence with numbers and strategies and plans.
The thugs. The ones Drago had warned me about.
The ones stirring up trouble on the eastern docks.
They had been a nuisance for too long, and I had let them fester because I had been distracted.
Because I had been thinking about her. Because I had been busy cooking breakfast and sending flowers and pretending I was someone I wasn't.
They would have been six feet under the ground by now if I hadn't been so consumed by Elera. That was the truth of it.
I had let them grow bold. I had let them think they were untouchable. And now I was paying for it.
Not anymore.
I pulled up the reports, studied the intel, made the calls. I would deal with them. I would handle them the way I should have handled them weeks ago. Efficiently. Brutally. Completely.
I didn't think about her. I didn't let myself think about her. I focused on the work, on the plans, on the cold satisfaction of doing what I did best.
But the cracks kept showing.
Every time I looked at my wrist, the watch was there, a small and constant reminder of her.
Every time my phone buzzed, my heart lurched, hoping it was her, knowing it wasn't.
Every time I caught a glimpse of the lopsided pot on the corner in my bedroom, I remembered the way she had laughed, the way her fingers had felt under mine, the way her lips felt against mine after so long.
I checked my phone constantly. No messages. No missed calls. Nothing.
She hadn't reached out. She hadn't called, hadn't texted, hadn't given me any sign that she was ready to talk. I had given her space, had given her time, had respected her boundaries. And she had used that space to disappear completely.
A part of me was upset with her. A selfish, wounded part that wanted her to fight for me the way I had fought for her.
I had chased her, had begged her, had laid myself bare in front of her.
I had told her everything, had given her every piece of myself.
And the first time she saw the real me, she had flinched. She had stepped back. She had run.
I understood why. I didn't blame her. But that didn't make it hurt any less.
So I didn't call her. I didn't text her. I didn't send flowers or show up at her office or do any of the things I wanted to do. If she wanted me, she would have to come to me. If she loved me, she would have to prove it. I had done my part. I had given her everything. The ball was in her court now.
I would wait. I would give her the space she asked for. And while I waited, I would deal with the thugs. I would handle the threats. I would do what I was good at.
The day stretched into evening, and evening into night. I was still in my office, the papers spread out in front of me, the lopsided pot sitting on the corner of my desk. I had been staring at the same report for an hour, my eyes burning, my head aching.
A knock on the door. Romano stepped in. He held up his phone.
"It's Seraphina," he said. "She's asking about you."
I shook my head. "Tell her I'm busy."
"She's just had a baby, boss. A son. She wants her brother to see him."
I stared at the papers in front of me. A son. Seraphina had a son. I should have been happy. I should have been there. But I couldn't. I couldn't look at a newborn, couldn't see new life, couldn't pretend to be joyful when I felt like I was dying inside.
"Tell her I'll come in a few days," I said. "I'll bring gifts. I just... not today."
Romano studied me for a moment, his face unreadable. He didn't argue. He just nodded and left.
I sat there in the silence, my hand pressed against my chest, and I let myself feel it. The anger. The frustration. The desperate need to hit something, to break something, to make the world feel as broken as I did.
I couldn't see my nephew. Not like this. Not with this rage simmering beneath my skin, this hollow ache that wouldn't let go.
So I picked up the reports and focused on the thugs. I would deal with them. I would take out all of my frustration on them. It was the best I could do.